His Hands
by volley
Summary: Something has happened and Malcolm is haunted by an image


Hello to all my old readers! I hope you are still out there and well.

Sorry I was away for so long; the past few years have been rather difficult, with added responsibilities and no time for fanfiction. Plus, some three years ago, I had the brilliant idea of changing the email address that identifies my account on this site, but then, since I did not visit for so long, I just forgot about it (!); for a very long time I was unable to open my page, and it was very frustrating. Then, just a few days ago, someone reviewed one of my stories and I happened to notice the email it was addressed to… a lightbulb lit in my mind, and I got in again! Not a moment too soon, I might add, for a Plot bunny had come jumping my way and I had a new story ready for publishing. Grateful thanks to Gabi2305 for beta reading it. I feel a bit rusty, after so long without writing, but I hope you enjoy this short fic. It is dedicated to my dad, who passed away in 2012 and whom I miss every day a little more.

* * *

His hands. Gripping the steering wheel.

Of all things!

The image was stuck in his mind, impossible to remove. Surely there had been more memorable features. The set of the jaw, the uncompromising eyes… Undoubtedly, _they_ had played more of a role in his upbringing.

It was no use. As Malcolm mechanically walked back to his quarters from Archer's ready room, all he could see was his father's hands gripping the steering wheel as the man drove them – his wife at his side in the front seat, Madeline and Malcolm in the rear – to some place or other.

Stuart had liked driving. Even after he had retired, in spite of his advancing age, he had thought nothing of taking long trips with Malcolm's mother, of the kind where you packed and took off without a precise destination, just for the fun of a good, long drive.

The truth was, sitting with Madeline on that back seat, Malcolm had often been mesmerized by his father's hands resting with relaxed self-assurance on the steering wheel. For some reason, they had made him feel safe, there had been a sort of… solidity about them. Yes, perhaps the image stuck because it brought back a rare cherished memory – seemingly from a life and a half ago.

They had always been characteristic, Stuart's hands. Not so much handsome as… impressive. They conveyed a feeling of power, positivity.

Now, where had _that_ come from? Positive generally wasn't an adjective Malcolm would associate with his father. But, come to think of it, in his own way, Reed Sr. had been a positive man: a man without doubts and without regrets.

Blimey. He was already conforming to the rule: never speak badly of the deceased. After all, Admiral Stuart Reed might have never doubted himself, but as for regrets… well, Malcolm knew of at least one, and he, of course, had been the cause. Besides, his father's hands had been bloody fearsome, if you happened to find yourself in their path under unfavourable circumstances.

Or had they.

Malcolm almost shook his head. Now that Stuart was no more, now that their conflicting relationship was no more, it was as if a wall had suddenly crumbled, and through the dust of the debris he could finally see the truth, and face the fact that the image of his dad as a chastiser, which had forever preyed on his mind, was probably exaggerated, blown out of proportions by the differences between them and all that they had entailed. As a matter of fact, he could only remember one instance in which his father had given him a good hiding: Malcolm had been just a child, and slightly too rambunctious, insisting in noisily chasing Madeline around the house despite a couple of warnings; his father had simply come out of his study room at the right moment, put out an arm, caught him in his midsection and…

Well, the man had never really _needed_ to resort to the hard ways: he was an Admiral, after all, and he knew how to give orders and make you obey them.

Barely aware of an Ensign nodding to him as they passed each other headed in different directions, Malcolm replied just in the nick of time not to appear impolite. He silently made a note to himself to pay more attention to the external world, but it was so bloody difficult, with his mind's eye stuck on that unrelenting image…

His father's hands… With age, they had got a certain chubbiness, which he supposed went with the portly build Stuart had acquired; and they'd got covered with those brown spots that came to older people. But they had remained remarkable hands.

Malcolm rounded the bend in the corridor and stopped before his quarters. His eyes were drawn to his own hand, when he lifted it to the opening command. He, instead, had inherited his mother's slender fingers. The notion, which was far from new to him, gave him a strange twinge in his chest: he suddenly knew that he would never glimpse his father's hands again, not even looking at his own, not even at his own as he grew older, and it was a painful realization.

Blimey, but it was.

Strange, the things one came to miss. Malcolm heaved a silent sigh and let himself in.

A few moments later, staring at himself in the mirror as he leaned with outstretched arms on the sink, the obsessive image that had haunted him finally vanished, chased away by his own reflection and the resemblance it recalled. His mother! He would have to call her, speak to her soon. Well, that was as soon as he could muster the courage to face her pain. His parents had been together through thick and thin for – what – sixty years?... Yes, last year they had celebrated sixty years of marriage. Malcolm, of course, had dodged the party Madeline had organized, with the excuse of his job on Enterprise, though he was pretty sure that Archer would not have denied him some shore leave.

Yes, his father might have spent a lot of time at sea, away from home, in his working years, but ever since he had retired, he had shared everything with his wife. What would happen now? How would she fill the void? What would she do with her days? Malcolm turned abruptly away from the mirror. This was worse than being obsessed by his father's hands. He returned to his room and looked around, feeling oddly at a loss. He really ought to put that call through, but…

The computer blinked. Incoming call. Commander Tucker. Trip must have heard… Malcolm looked at the insisting light beckoning him, but could not bring himself to open the channel. After what seemed like a very long while, Trip gave up.

So, what now? Malcolm dropped to sit on the bed. Archer had given him the rest of the day off, and arranged for a Vulcan ship to come and pick him up and take him back to Earth, but in the meanwhile he needed something to do to keep his mind busy. Perhaps if he went to the Armoury and did some target practice he might be able to…

The doorbell cut his thought short.

So Trip hadn't given up, after all. Malcolm considered not answering; but next he knew, he was at the door, staring into the Chief Engineer's compunctious eyes.

"Was afraid you'd ignore also the doorbell," Trip said, his usual straightforward self.

Malcolm looked back numbly. "Yes, well. I considered it. Don't know why I didn't, really."

Trip's face fell a little. "Ah. Suppose I'd better go, then."

There was a moment of uncomfortable suspension; then Trip started to turn away, and Malcolm's heart fell one deck lower. "Look… I'm sorry," he stuttered. He raked a hand through his hair, looking for the right words. "Since I did, answer the door, that is…" He stepped aside, silently inviting his friend in.

"Sure?"

"Sure."

And so here they were. Sitting in front of one another, with nothing much to say. To Trip's credit, the man had known better than offering trite words of condolences. He knew Malcolm by now.

Malcolm watched him self-consciously rub a hand on his thigh, and his mind was swept off once again.

Well, since he was letting a few long-suppressed memories out of the box, his father's hands – Malcolm must have been six or seven –had also delicately guided his into learning the fine art of tying knots. For a time, before his aquaphobia spoilt everything, they had enjoyed each other's company. Stuart had taught him how to handle a sailboat and how to fish.

"Was it sudden?" Trip asked, piercing his recollection. "Don't recall you sayin' anything about your dad bein' sick."

Malcolm tightened his lips. Perhaps he ought to have shared; but it had been too difficult, too emotional. He wondered how much to say, at this point. But Trip had faced the sudden death of someone close, with that Xindi probe, and knew what it meant wanting to keep some things inside.

"He'd had a few problems," he muttered. "Still… It has come as a bit of a surprise. I thought…" He left the rest unsaid, feeling a sudden surge of something, which he wasn't ready to call grief but came dangerously close to it.

Yes, they had all known it was coming, Mary, Madeline and he, but he had stubbornly refused to acknowledge it. He had quickly built the umpteenth barrier and hid behind it: Stuart was a rock; he would fight, be all right for a long time yet… Besides, he, Malcolm, could not leave the Enterprise, he had a responsibility towards his Captain and the crew.

 _And what about your responsibility as a son?_ a nasty little voice hissed.

"We're never ready for some things," Trip quietly said, suddenly looking like the dark man of the mission in the Expanse. "And there's always a certain amount of guilt," he added, with a direct look. "Don't let it get at you."

Yes, Trip knew. If there was anyone on this ship that could understand, it was he, who had lost a sister in that hell of a way. And of course, the man was also privy to the difficulties between him and his dad. How pointless it all seemed now.

"So futile," Malcolm blurted out, realizing too late that he was actually voicing his thoughts, "so bloody stupid!"

He looked up to meet eyes that did not question him, but simply offered whatever support they could.

"The Vulcan ship will rendezvous in about six hours," Trip said after a long silence.

Malcolm checked the time. He'd be leaving this ship in the middle of the night. So much the better. He did not feel like facing the crew's well-meaning looks and words of condolences.

Right, then: he had that call to make, and a few things to pack. He squared his shoulders and stood up, and Trip took the hint, following suit.

"Keep in touch, when you're there?" he asked, as they walked to the door.

It wasn't a perfunctory request, Malcolm knew well. "Will try," he replied, not in the mood for making any promises.

With a last meaningful look and a "take care", Trip was gone. Malcolm leaned against the closed door and looked at the computer screen with a heavy heart. He had never been good at comforting people, though during their mission in the Expanse he had, out of necessity, learnt a few things about it.

He slowly walked to his desk and sat down. He placed his hands on the keyboard; before he started typing, though, he lifted his fingers off it and opened them wide, staring at them. He sure hoped that, now that that wall had crumbled, from wherever he may be, Stuart would be proud of these hands, however different from his they may be.

He blew out a slow breath and punched a few keys.

"I'd like to place a call to Earth, Ensign. My parents' home."

Hoshi's voice held no unusual emotion, as she replied. Obviously, the Captain had only informed Trip. Malcolm said a silent thank you.

A moment later, Mary's tired face filled the screen.

"Mother…"

"Malcolm, dear…"


End file.
